


assumptions of aeipathy (or lack thereof)

by brightpyrite



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Dragon Castiel, Dragon Gabriel, M/M, Prince Dean Winchester, Prince Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:57:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3483983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightpyrite/pseuds/brightpyrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Prince Dean of Winchester falls ill before he is officially King, Prince Sam would never suspect to meet dragons on the journey to the antidote, and he never would suspect the one who held the cure was a scrawny man who lived in a shackled cottage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> saw a disappointing lack of good medieval au's for sastiel. so I made one with dragons.

Castiel stills at the entrance, his eyes shifting over the lush landscape, not daring to move and disrupt the winds. The reverberating whispers of the forest never ceased, and yet today it began to stifle, as though hitching its breath and awaiting indefinitely for something, someone. He narrows his eyes upon the soil, determining whether his assumptions were accurate, and whether the earth moved beneath him.

It certainly felt as so.

From inside his broad, shared quarters, his brother rumbles, "Come on, Castiel, if you're mourning the death of another stolen swine, at least say some thanks to get it out of your system."

Castiel turns toward the voice, further in the chambers, "Gabriel. Do you feel that?"

"Stop moping at the front and get over here if you'd like me to treat you seriously." Gabriel's hum is slick with sardonic amusement, tinged with only unrelenting boredom.

"Do you feel that?" repeats Castiel, gaze fixating back onto the thick woodland only momentarily, "Something is about to happen."

Gabriel was hidden within the dark, but Castiel was absolutely positive his brother rolled his eyes at his remark. "It's just a matter of time before anything happens."

"Yes, but something particularly important. You feel it as well." Castiel whirls around, as though confronting Gabriel. "It appears to be calling to me."

Castiel can feel the atmosphere shift, and his hackles rose instinctively, however no threat arrived. Gabriel only affirms with, "I'd tell you that what you felt was nonsense, but I suppose it's true."   
He ends his statement with a shrug-like gesture. Gabriel strolls closer, his disposition intimidating to any unfamiliar passerby; even packed with just gleaming eyes and a sharp tongue, he emitted superiority to its core.

"Do you think it's a good thing?"

"Honestly? Not particularly, no." With those words, he sits down on the stone floor with a _whump_.

"Ah."

"Cheer up, lad," Gabriel huffs, "somewhere in the northeast kingdom of Winchester, some nobleman is crying over the lost of their child despite the way they eagerly refused to attain bread for the child in the first place."  
His interjection was so sudden, Castiel almost entirely forgot Gabriel's clairvoyance ability- his older sibling hardly ever used his ability aloud these past years.

Appearing disconcerted somewhat by the visual, Castiel deliberately responds, "Was that supposed to make me feel any better?" 

"Once more, no."

At this, Castiel does not suppress his smile.

"All the while," continues the golden dragon, scales fitted sharply and almost too bright for the dull cave they claimed it as a domicile, "All the while, the two princes of the same kingdom are thoughts away from dueling with each other in a non-recreational sort of way."

Castiel blinks, cocking his head, "Why is that?"

"Bickering about what color robe the giant of the two should wear for the banquet tonight," scoffs Gabriel, smoke rising in gray wisps, and he shoots Castiel an entertained glance. "Royalty's such an agonizing matter, isn't it?"

Castiel agreed. It definitely was.

"I think I'd like to go check out this kingdom, though. Don't you?"

"Hardly. I'd say they've caused me enough grief for a lifetime," Gabriel retorts immediately, grunting as he readjusts himself.

"I'll go."

Gabriel halts, his gaze unwavering as he speaks. "You're serious."

"Yes."

This begins a staredown between them, each not willing to back down. However finally, Gabriel breaks the tension by blowing a raspberry which effectively makes Castiel recoil.

"If you leave and don't return, don't expect me to rampage the entire kingdom looking for you then," muses Gabriel, standing himself back up to pad back further into the cave. "Also, don't die. That would be quite unfortunate. And stay in your human form."

Castiel wonders if Gabriel knows how hollow his words sound; he's trying too hard to appear nonchalant, and it's questioning on whether Gabriel will ever admit his own concerns of Castiel.  
Most likely not, as that itself would appear unsettling as well.

"I accept your terms," Castiel smiles, but it quickly vanishes once he realizes what remains of human clothing he has left, were now in terrible condition from lack of proper usage, and only used as cleaning rags in the recent times. "I only wish you were able to come with me."

"Oh, of course," Gabriel reciprocates with sarcasm, "me, a large mythical beast alongside a peasant with no name to himself, hoping to be invited freely and stroll the streets of the Winchester Kingdom. Of course."

"Only if you didn't try to scare the patrolling guards, you would have never been told to limit your powers," admonishes Castiel, "now you still have five years to go, according to the higher-ups."

"It's ridiculously petty," grumbles Gabriel, "I was exiled from the mainland, you ran off, and yet we still have to obey the leader's every whim."

"Subliminally," Castiel hastily adds, "we're not aware if we're obeying their 'whims.'"

Gabriel snaps testily, "You think I wouldn't of had known?" before curling up with his wings tucked neatly beside his body, "Find some cattle so you won't go hungry. I'll be resting here if you need any guidance." With that, he shuts his bright eyes, leaving Castiel still conscious in the enigma of a world.

He finds himself nodding, and unfolding his wings, a leathery gray, to prepare for flight.

It was an understatement to say it would be beneficial.

He wasn't afraid of flying higher in these locations, as humans barely stayed toward these unsightly areas, and were deemed risky and frightening, according to farmers that sometimes towed their goods across the paths to barter. The unknown repulsed people incredibly, and the results fascinated Castiel more than it ever should (according to Gabriel).

Nevertheless, he didn't expect a human upon the rocky trail nearby, and he certainly didn't expect a band of thieves guising a plan against said human.

Castiel definitely should have stayed away from humans meddling with one another, and he already regrets it when he shifts human and throws on his ragged clothing. 

Although in the future, he might claim this had been the best decision he'd made in a while. But Castiel never was one to think heavily on the future.


	2. dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Sam finds solace in a peculiar dream, and Prince Dean is eager to forget any and all responsibility for as long as he can. And since King John's departure, it's certain to say that the brothers have much, much more to bear on their shoulders now.
> 
> Whether or not they will pull through, is a question that can break them and the kingdom.

Sam is standing on a cliff, peering down on his stitched boots with the royal emblem proudly embroidered into the side. On his left, there is an immense pressure, and he is almost hyperaware of the person that stood incredibly close to him, as if there was no sense of personal space required.

Despite so, Sam does not tell the person off, or otherwise. His gaze merely travels up, but cannot reach pass the person's jawline, piercing blue streaks of light completely blinding Sam from being able to decipher the person's face. He suspects it is male, from the figure's stature, and a working-class male to be precise. A merchant, perhaps. The clothes stood dull and drab compared to his own finery, although in this case, Sam's attire was also mottled with unknown splotches.

His limbs feel weary, like he'd spent the entire day honing his battle skills instead of hiding away in the castle's impressive library. But Sam's mind is absolutely livid, feeling a sort of enthused pull in his heart that fuels the corporeal parts of him.

He does not know what to think of this, and instead tries to absorb everything he sees; the kingdom affront standing firm and proud against the forests that crowd around and the stony canyons that were carved toward the south, where the stranger and Sam stood.  
Sam hears himself breathe out, "Who...," but the word was never responded to.

The wind was louder than either of their subtle movements, and yet Sam can feel every inhale and exhalation the man makes beside him, and he flinches when the man knits his fingers with Sam, a sporadically intimate gesture that has Sam instinctively pull away. The palm that presses against his is cold, and he stops himself from completely detaching their contac, for reasons unknown.

It is then he realizes his hands are slick with moisture, and glancing down, he sees they are stained red.

He must have said something that was concealed from himself by the gales, but the man speaks.  
"No," Sam hears the man say, or rather, Sam _feels_. It's relatively deep, and there is something in his tone that makes the prince cringe.

Their shoulders slacken and he sees it well to set his to the stranger's, as though they were lovers without a care of public gazes. But as he does so, the man withdraws, and there is a sudden disappointment that flickers in Sam before he extinguishes the selfish thought.

"Sam," is enunciated deliberately, and Sam decides that he is enthralled with this voice. It's piteous; pathetic, and yet he is agonizingly honest.

"Yes," croaks Sam in response, his tongue heavy within his mouth. The man reaches for his other hand, which Sam complies easily, and in spite of the way Sam cannot directly stare into the man's eyes due the blue flames, the man smiles simply. The blood smears across their fingertips, but the man does not appear to care.

He draws closer, and Sam shuts his eyes, expecting some declaration of love, or undying vow of loyalty. Or, perhaps, a kiss.

Instead, he is cut with a blunt, "Wake up, you dolt." 

Being shook violently, his eyes snap open and met with another unimpressed gaze. "Come on, Sam. Get up!"

"Hh.... Huh?" is Sam's witty reply.

The man groans, and Sam can now clearly identify the impolite figure as his brother, in line for the throne. "You utter idiot. You were supposed to meet me in the arena at noon sharp. I've already completed two rounds, and I'm on a break now."

Sam tries not to choke on his own saliva from sleeping in such an awkward position, on the floor and hugging his knees. "Sorry."

"Lord. Alright, get up." Prince Dean clasps his strong hand around Sam's wrist and pulls him up, both stumbling somewhat. "We've still got time before supper. Let's go."

"Where to?" Sam rubs his neck and rolling it, feeling it crack comfortably.

"Not sure," Dean admits, "how about taking a walk at the edge of the kingdom walls?"

"Dean...," warns Sam, "don't you still have some work?"

"Nah. Bobby's taking care of it now, he says it's fine. So, what do you say?"

Sam ignores his invitation, poking at his vague answer, "You still have to, you know, pick a suitess?" Ever since King John has passed, Dean has been intensely examined to fit requirements of the next generation King. And for the talents he lacked, more exercises were placed onto those for work.   
And despite how many times Dean dimisses the work as easy to take care of, Sam cannot help but concern himself with Dean's personal matters.

"Yeah, well, I've got time."

"Do you?" presses Sam, and Dean finally lets a sigh escape.

"No, Bobby only told you that to get you off my back. We're trying to stall the process for as long as we can, alright?"

"The longer you wait, the longer the citizens have to wait for a king. Because you can't have a king with no queen."

"I _know_ , Sam. Shut up and take a stroll with me." He shoots Sam a glare. "Just let me do my own thing for a while, and if shit really goes down, we'll try something else."

"Sure, sure." Sam heaves a sigh, but does not argue anymore until they are out of the castle and into the streets.

\--

Dean doesn't take his black stallion (that he is utterly, irrevocably, attached to as though the horse was his infant), saying it was too long to saddle him and take him out of the stable, and not worth the effort today.

They've found that if they move quickly enough, they don't attract attention and no one stares at them long enough to acknowledge them as royalty.  
Dean lingers at the local tavern's front for a few seconds too long, and Sam has to drag him away before they continue on their course.   
They cloak themselves in dull riding capes- large hoods shadowing their faces almost entirely- and exit through the main gates, where they merely flash their faces and are allowed complete exit and entrance through kingdom tolls without paying fees. 

Several guards offer assistance as they are out, but Dean immediately refuses their aid.

"What if we're attacked, Dean, and you die?" testily snaps Sam.

"Then you can be King of Winchester," is Dean's blatant response, and that is the end of that.

"What if we both die?"

To this, Dean stays silent and smacks Sam in the back of his head.

The grass and soil beneath his boots is spongey and loamy, and they track through the sunken ground into they meet the secret dirt path that's cleared away and completely cut off from the main cobblestone that foreign merchants and travelers move to and fro. At one point Sam gets stuck in the mud for a few frightening seconds (and yelps, but Dean does not do much other than laugh), but he soon clambers out with much of a second glance.

Once the princes hit the narrow pathway, Sam says, "I had a dream, before you so rudely woke me up." They simultaneously flip their hoods back, Dean giving his cropped hair an adequate pat whilst Sam carded his hand through his hair numerous times before finding it satisfactory.

"Of what, dear brother?" snorts Dean, side-eyeing him easily, "something obscene, maybe. Your babbling and drool told quite a lot."

"No! No. Nothing of the sort," he instantly shuts the idea down, however he does feel rather guilty of being in such an intimate state in his dream. And with another man, as well! Obscene, indeed. "It was odd. Maybe it's a foresight?"

"Explain," prompts Dean, and Sam does just that, as they travel up the hill.

"... And his eyes, I wasn't able to focus upon them, it was just bright light." Sam shrugs, completing the retelling of his dream, carefully ignoring all signs that could have been judged as romantically-inclined.

Dean is quiet for a while, and when Sam looks over to him, his face appears exasperate to a degree. "That sounds supremely dumb."

Sam wills himself not to bristle at Dean's oblivious, superficial remark, but Dean continues on, "But, you know, maybe it does mean something. That the peasant life is the true way of living."

Dean successfully misses Sam's spontaneous punch, and has the nerve to snicker.

"Look over there, though," Dean points, once Sam has halted throwing sudden critical hits at Dean. "People say dragons live there. Hey, if dragons are real, then men with glowing eyes could definitely be possible."

Sam stares at the jagged mountain range that's rather far into the horizon, appearing small. Closer to the kingdom walls were meadows and pastures, and several tillages lay east of them. Between these two was a dense forest land, heavy with vegetation and woodland creatures, along with most likely, other unknown specimen. "You think? I mean, do you think dragons are real?"   
People didn't commonly trail through the forests, and instead took the safe stone roads.

"I wouldn't know. Look at our kingdom- people are mixing around elixirs just as easily as making stew. All you got to do is chant some verses while throwing weeds together." Dean stops, squinting at the mountains.  "With that said, why not? Just perhaps not living there, specifically. We'd probably have spotted them a long time ago if they lived there."

"Ah."

"You think they're real?"

Sam raises a shoulder and drops it. "Yeah, I suppose so. I'd make the same argument as you for dragons." He rubs his wrist absent-mindedly. "It's sort of odd that even though Winchester is such a magic-heavy kingdom, it attracts no supernatural elements or creatures? Like, we don't even place astral barriers because it's pretty much unnecessary."

"Hell, I don't know. But if you ever find out about these beasts, please don't get yourself multilated or eaten. And also, let me meet it. I want to see if it matches the lore." Dean wrinkles his nose, "And what do you think dragon flesh taste like?"

"Ugh, Dean, stop."

"But what-"

"Stop!"

Dean's smile only widens. "Whatever, wench. Let's head back, I heard the chefs are preparing something special for me."

"They're always planning something special because you're always dropping hints, Dean."

"Ouch, now I don't feel so significant anymore."

"What- Lord, you're so ignorant."

"Hey, I'm going through like, double the anxiety you are, because of all this. I deserve to feel normal sometimes."

"I respectfully disagree," mutters Sam under his breath, "But what's your tutor educating you on about manners? Who _is_ your mentor anyway?" Because it appeared the classes had absolutely no lasting effect on Dean.

"Hell, I don't recall either- ow, Sam, stop swinging those fists, will you?"

Admittedly, supper that night was pretty impressive, but only slightly more flaunting than any other meal they've had before. As if they need more elaboration to show their royal stance.  
Sam grunts, poking the carrots mildly, giving peeved glanced to Dean's direction, who'd been too busy shoveling salted and broiled meats and bread into his neverending hole of a mouth to reciprocate the gaze.

"Dean- brother," hisses Sam lowly, to not be picked up by the guards that stood at the room's entrance.

He looks up only momentarily, "What."

Sam only needs to pull a distasteful expression for Dean to understand his meaning, and the older prince allows himself a quiet groan and slows down eating.

It is only several mouthfuls after settling, when the newly titled Regent walked in, immediatelly piquing Sam and Dean's attention.

"Bobby," Sam and Dean both start, stumbling to get out of their seats and to bow.

The Regent waves his hand dismissively, "Sit down, both of you."

"Have you got news for us?" inquires Sam, sitting back down.

Bobby gives him a neutral glance, "Must I have news every time I address you, Prince Sam?"

"Ah, no."

"Good. With that said, I've got some mild news," affirms Regent Singer, ignoring Sam's sputter and Dean's sudden noise of amusement. Turning to the pre-King, he continues, "Dean, you must choose a suitess by the end of spring, and I'm unable to push the deadline back any further."

"Wait, what?" Dean stares at Bobby with a certain scrutiny, "Why?"

"Because the kingdom can't hold up properly without a king," Bobby responds with equal argumental tones, "the citizens arentgoing to lay low about your choices if you don't become king soon."

"Yes, but-," suddenly Dean looses the flame in his eyes and tongue, and slumps into his seat. He stays silent for a long while, Sam and Bobby waiting patiently, an underlying tension running through the room. The guards have already exited the room to give space to the spontaneous council.

"Yes," repeats Dean, fixating his view onto his half-consumed platter. "I'll make sure that happens, Bobby."

"Dean-" Sam starts, but Dean cuts him off quickly.

"Stay out of it, Sam."

Bobby sighs, "I know this is hard, Dean, but please understand-"

In loud, abrupt movements, Dean pulls himself away from the table, to which Sam flinches slightly. "Alright, alright, tell me later. I'm going to my chamber now."

Bobby nods, and turns to the guards beside the doorway. "Please escort Prince Dean to his chamber for the night."

When the guards begin to move toward Dean, he holds his palms up, forcing them to withdraw and dip their heads. "No, I'll see myself there. I'll see you tomorrow."

Without a second glance, he exits, leaving his food out to spoil. Sam's watch lingers at the doorway, then he shifts to Bobby, who only glances at him in return and says, "Take care of your brother for me, Sam," and excuses himself out.

He sat there, alone. Sam can only consume one more serving of mixed vegetables before he stops completely, and stands up.

It was awfully quiet, and he wasn't sure if it was better than having Dean scarfing down food noisily across the dining table, or not.

Before he leaves to notify the maidens to clear the place, he realizes that Dean hadn't even eaten from the desserts tray before his departure, and nimbly swipes a slice of pie, hiding it under napkin cloth.

\--

"Dean?" Sam raps on his brother's door, expecting some response, whether it be a noise of disdain or an actual word. None came, so Sam knock once more. "Dean."

He tries the door, frustrated by the silence Dean was giving him, especially after the act he pulled during supper, and is disconcerted to find that it had been unlocked. Swinging the door open, Sam snaps, "Why aren't you answering-"

Sam is only confronted with an absence of Dean, and he steps into the dim-lit room, the candles all extinguished for a long while. Whilst his eyes readjusted, he spots a note on the bed.

_Sam-_  
_First, must you be in my chamber?  
_ _Second, do not worry about me, I'm not doing anything horribly dimwitted._

_I'll see you in the morning._

_Dean._

Lord. It was going to be a very long time of unrest. Sam wonders with dry humor if the man with glowing eyes will arrive in his dreams once more, to take away his misery.

He doubts so, but is eager to try nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to anyone's curiosity/confusion, a prince cannot be a king without a queen/consort, but a princess can be a queen without a king. ha!


	3. imminence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean accidentally digs himself an early grave, and Sam decides he shouldn't care so much (but does so anyway), and Bobby is absolutely exasperated.

Sam's got cramped shoulders the first time in forever as he walks out of the dressing room, after telling the maids he'd prefer to dress himself- like he hasn't been repeating the same demand every day of the last month, which he has.

Undoubtedly, the maids are concerned, as though he has some obscure markings on his flesh or bruises in odd places that he'd rather keep private. It was none of that, quite frankly he wanted some minutes alone, despite the way it also took double the time if he tried to slip onto his daily garments by himself than with help of the ladies.

Every month there is a cycle of maid chores, and he gets a new group, waiting eagerly to fulfill his wants. At the end of the month, they all seem rather peeved, as though their month of cleaning after a prince hadn't quite become what they thought it might. Unlike Dean's finely selected maids, who've been specifically told to deny Dean any intimate action or anything he may turn vulgar to.

Sam always laughed at this.

Anyway, all the fastening, buttoning, clipping- too much of a hassle. Sam was beginning to become envious of Dean's clothing, which were custom tailored to be effortless in changing.

If Sam asked for such garments now, Dean would immediately conclude Sam to be copying his style, and Sam really didn't want to put up with that.

As he expected, the enigmatic man with quite literally blinding face and eyes had not reappeared in his dreams that night, which was definitely an omen, because how else could Sam recall a dream so clear? Lord, he sometimes couldn't even remember what he ate the dinner before.

He smooths his collar delicately, reprocessing his day's tasks. After the morning meal, he'll have ten minutes to meet his mentor out in the garden for another agriculture lesson. Then he'll be passed to another, for education in horseback riding and review in care. Continuing after dinner, Sam will have an hour of manner building which transitions to something else he couldn't recall immediately that moment. 

Fixing his cuffs, he cascades down the stairs, stumbling only on the last step, reaching the dining table, where he suspected Dean would be, stuffing his face like swine at a trough.

Once he steps through the arched door, he's even got the words of admonishment on his tongue, but the dining room is empty of Dean's presence, and the kitchen maids stood awkwardly in a huddle at a far end, mumbling to each other.

Sam clears his throat, and they jump apart, hastily smoothing their aprons.

"Your Highness," calls a short maid, "please take a seat, the meal will be ready in a few moments."

"Uh, where's Prince Dean?"

"His Highness is in his chambers, and has been told to stay there for the day." Another maid pipes up, "He's fallen ill- even more so, this past hour."

Sam sputters, "Ill?" He bets his crown that this mishap was due to Dean's evening departure after dinner. Damn it. "As of when did this begin?"

"Ah, yes. Just after midnight, your Highness."

"R-regrettably, I must leave. I'll find breakfast later!" Sam almost instantly calls over his shoulder as he slips out of the dining hall.

\--

"Sam," groans Bobby, the second Sam practically kicks the door open, "could you please have the decency to be quiet?"

"What the Hell happened Dean?"

"Yes, well, the display is all here." Bobby gestures Dean, who's tightly tucked in bed and sleeping. Sweat clung to his forehead, and his breaths has a subtle wheeze that grated on Sam's ears. "A miracle he didn't wake up because of you." Bobby gives a side glance. "Or maybe a curse."

"Did the doctors already check him?" Sam's shoulders heave upward from the sudden expense of adrenaline."

"No, this isn't some disease Dean caught on the streets. It's some type of spell."

"Spell? Shouldn't Dean be reinforced against this already, with his royal blood?"

"It's draining his own barriers. We've never had an account of this before," Bobby shakes his head, "I'd think he'd become completely vulnerable to any spiritual attack if there's no treatment."

"What? How is that even remotely possible-"

Dean grunts aloud, effectively stopping Sam in the midst of his fuming interrogation. Sam lets out a heaving sigh. "Look, all I'm saying is that it's ridiculous to even assume that this has no cure."

"I'm not assuming anything, Sam. But you've got to understand that if Dean dies, you're next in line for-"

"Yes, yes, I know. But please, isn't there anything we can do before we start preparing shit like that?"

The Regent stays silent for a while, eyes glancing down at the bedded prince. At last, he responds with an intense quiet, "Get the lore books."

Sam blinks, stumbling upright. "Which ones?"

"Do I need to spell everything out for you? The ones in my chamber, within the cabinets. Hurry," huffs Bobby, "it's not as though we've got much time."

Bobby needs not to say any more before Sam is out the door again, his mind absolutely livid with a crawling desperation and Dean's likely death.

Before he receives the books, Sam decides to check in with mentor 04-27, who just so happened to pass by. After getting a positive affirmation to miss duties for the entire day, he speeds down the hall, only slowing down slightly to the cries of the cleaning maids and servants.

When he comes back, arms full of leather-bound books, Dean has already sat himself up, head in his hands. Sam drops the scriptures noisily, successfully gaining Dean's attention.

"Finally," says Bobby, and snatches one of the worn books to skim through.

"Sammy, _Lord_ , you should have stopped me from going out yesterday," rasps Dean, as though he's almost completely lost his voice.

"Shut up, what did you do?" Sam has no heart to keep the fire on his tongue alit.

"I went out to Harvelle's tavern, alright. I don't remember anything else. You think someone could have cursed me? Shit, I'm seeing things and I can't get them out of my head." Dean shuts his eyes and lies his head back.

"Idiot," hisses Sam.

Dean groans, "Don't blame me now."

"Dean, Sam, you should hear about this," Bobby interrupts the fruitless tension, laying the book flat on the bed beside Dean, "says here that, '... other mages or otherwise can seize a weary soul's magic and gradually consume it if the victim is willing to give away part of their identity, even if just temporary."

"Dean...."

"Are you speaking tongues? I didn't give a damn thing away," snaps his older brother, albeit weakly, "if I did, I would have known I lost something, wouldn't I?"

"Not likely. Most of these deals are made when the victim is not in their right mind, so they generally don't factor the losses as heavily."

"Fine, so what if I did? I don't recall losing anything, and if it doesn't affect me, so what?"

"At this rate, you will die under any emotional extremity or spiritual attack," replies Bobby, without skipping a beat. "So either way, you will die soon."

"Damn it, Bobby, don't say it like that." Dean's voice rises just slightly, almost  becoming a wheezing plea. "You can't blame this all on me like that."

"No one's blaming anyone," Bobby sharply responds, clapping the book shut. "But maybe we can contact some witch who has dealt with this before. Lord knows where that witch would reside though."

"No witch lives nearby," points Sam, grimacing, "too much magic conflicts."

The atmosphere turns sour and silent; Bobby and Sam too absorbed in their findings whilst Dean was too exhausted to complain further. At last, the older prince speaks, with a heavy rasp on his tongue. "Hey, now that I'm ill... will the deadline of choosing a suitess extend?"

"Unfortunately," Bobby says testily, blatantly peeved at this disorganized schedule he'll have to face that month.

Dean only lets out a sputtering laugh as his approving response, relaxing his head back onto the pillows. "Staying honest for one more month."

"Lord," mutters Sam, eyes rolling.

\--

After Sam and Bobby exit Dean's chambers, hoping he will find enough tranquility to rest, they head to the library's study quarters. Only after, of course, Sam is able to snatch a small pastry from the kitchen to curb the gnawing hunger that had disappeared during the shock of Dean's illness news, and only returned at one of the very unconventional times.

"Will we be using that interactive map?"

"As much I hate that map, yes." Bobby arches his eyebrows, "Is there another issue?"

Bad memories were connected to the wide banner map eye level upon the wall, including several places and moments Sam does not dare to mention once more. It was already embarrassing as it was. "No, no. Just curious."

Bobby doesn't reply, instead presses his palm onto the stretched fabric, feeling it waver underneath his hand. There's no sharp light that washes over the fabric like most transformation spells, but the asymmetrical design simply dissolves, leaving a browned map beneath.

"We're here," Sam gestures the large massive outline of the Winchester Kingdom at the center of the map, "so go south."

"South? That's all canyon, I don't think any right-minded being would live there," scoffs Bobby, but obliges, scrolling his fingers up to pull the rocky terrain southern of the kingdom.

As he suspected no residence had appeared.

"East, then," prompts Sam. Again, even miles far east, no magic based communities shown itself, despite of the thriving small county that Winchester recognized as its neighbor.

They tries with north, northeast, west, and northwest. Still, nothing incredibly fulfilling had shown up, and Sam was becoming fidgety, and he's only faintly aware of the knitted brows he wore and the wringing of hands.

Attempts at remaining hopeful declines rapidly, and Sam says, "What if we create a public announcement dedicated for this cause?"

"Sure, if we're prepared for war as well. Not everyone will be respectful about our current struggles, Sam."

"Yes, I'm aware, but we're losing options, Bobby!"

"We'll find something. As of now...," Bobby glances out the arched windows, the sun beating down harsh and unrelenting. "I've still got some work to do. I'll leave this to you until after supper."

Sam bit the inside of his cheek. "Yes."

"Good, but trust me when I say we will find some compromise." Bobby gives a scrutinizing once-over before he departs, and Sam is alone.

Sam turns back to the map, and presses his fingertips to it warily. It responds with a hazy thrum and once his right hand is used to the consistent sensation, he pushes towards south. He's heard before that witches and mages prefer residing near running water, and decides to zoom into the individual stream that splits into several sub-streams, then finally into a delta. 

He follows the river with his hand, hoping to find a particularly small pale dot that acknowledged the presence of a magic-bearer.

Until he does feel it.

_Carver Edlund._

Sam feels a breath hitch in his throat, as he taps the dot, hoping it's not another mistake or wannabe witch.

His joy dies in his throat as he reads Edlund's statistics.

_Self-proclaimed witch. Freelance poet. Unknown years of business._

Damn it. Nonetheless, he holds a minuscule hope that perhaps this "self-proclaimed witch" is not only willing, but actually able to help them. Like, he's the official Prince of Winchester alongside his pre-King brother, how would Edlund not accept his proposal? 

Sam muses, as he is saving Edlund's profile onto the map, what the witch might like as a reward. Gold? Land? Rum? Who knew- Sam barely ever interacted with loner witches as a whole to know their tastes.

Sam zooms outward of the map and that moment, is aware of Edlund's residence. South of the Winchester Kingdom, and through the entire canyon and jagged stone land, finally in the midst of a thick forestry. Next to a nicely placed stream. Unknown creatures dwelled in those areas, it's been told, some faraway travelers have told tavernside stories of these unsightly, gnarled beings.

Sam chokes back a groan. He feels terribly bad for the poor knights that will have to track through this path to retrieve the antidote or spell scripture, and return to the kingdom intact.

But it's worth it, apparently.

\--

When Sam tells Bobby of this bittersweet news, he expects Bobby to entirely reject the idea of communicating with a "self-proclaimed witch," but instead Bobby says, "Alright. We'll contact him with the normal contacting spell tomorrow. Hopefully he has enough spirituale to accept that call."

Sam subtly leaves the location of the witch out of the conversation, and even when he goes to his quarters for the night, he lingers at Dean's door.

Whatever Dean had done last night, it severely fucked him up and over.  
Sam's not sure whether to give sympathy or not is the correct choice, but emotions were never decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm doing a really wonky thing with dialect because basically it's going to be a mix of medieval slang and modern English and cursing. if you're curious about a phrase not making sense, then just tell me!
> 
> honest: pure, a virgin.


	4. desperation

Sam is staring down at the witch. A man who, of what Sam can tell, resides in a house only barely falling apart. "Uh." In the bare distance, papers were strewn everywhere, and Sam could faintly hear croaking of amphibians. It's somewhat dim in the man's house, but he can blatantly see the mildew on the walls and the consistent smoke tendrils creep from the unknown right-side of the man.

"Hello? Hello?" The man squints into the plated glass communication device.

"You're Edlund, yes?" Bobby says, deadpan.

"That's me, and you- you're Singer, of the Winchester Kingdom." The witch smiles weakly, "is there something you required?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam clears his throat and the attention is once again drawn back to him- and for a moment, Sam swears he caught a flinch in Carver's body language before he posed formally. "We would like... an assistance. For our-"

"Prince Samuel?" Carver appears somewhat stricken as he remarks questionably, "You're not what I thought you looked like."

Sam deadpans, "I- we've never met."

"Sure, yes, but I am a witch, per se."

The prince perks up, "You're clairvoyant?"

The witch pauses, mouth open to respond, but settles with a mumble. "Sort of."

"Anway," grouses Bobby, "Prince Dean, successor of the throne, has fallen ill. We need foreign magic to obtain his spirtuale back in time for his crowning."

"Lost his magic? What was the cause?" A spy, most likely, who wanted to slyly crumble the kingdom's build.

"Who knows. He was ridiculously inebriated prior to the sickness. Prince Dean still contains a minuscule amount within, but it's pretty useless."

"As to that," Sam cuts in, "we need some sort of cure to kickstart his magic, whatever."

"That's difficult. Are you sure he's not able to go without his magic? Being royalty, and all." Carver rubs his neck in an uneasy manner.

"That would be the exact reason why he _would_ in fact require his spirituale, wouldn't it? He'd be too vulnerable without it."

"... I don't work free, you know."

"That really should not be the issue." Sam suspects that it was never the issue, and Carver was only giving a half-hearted attempt to wayward them into finding another mage or witch.

"I'll probably find something. But you have to pick up the ailment, just as an aside."

"That's fine. We'll probably send our finest troops to our residence."

"No, no. I mean that you, Prince Samuel, must be the one to retrieve the treatment- it's not a trick, I swear to the gods! Only kin can carry the treatment without it losing the potency, because it's all soulwork. Close blood connections work well." Carver pauses only momentarily and adds, "Seeing that you too are blood-related to Prince Dean, Regent Robert, you are capable of retrieving it as well."

Sam narrows his eyes and glances at Bobby to give the call. Bobby scoffs, "Is there really no other way?"

"Or someone the victim- er, patient, has bedded recently."

"Oh." The prince barely recalls any prominent mistresses Dean has escorted before, and he does not even want to imagine inquiring Dean himself about this. That would be embarassment in the basic, intimate form, no matter what circumstances.

"What form would the treatment take in?"

"Liquid, mainly. I find it's the simplest to contract the less-than-corporeal properties from." 

"Should we expect a vial or two, then?"

Carve shrugs, "I suppose. Depending how severe Prince Dean's symptoms are."

"Fatigue, nausea, and infrequent coughing, as of now," prompts Bobby.

"Increasingly becoming worse?"

"Perhaps. The illness has merely occured two days ago."

"Then, yeah, I'd think so," Carver blinks, and presses an awkward smile, "I'll contact you immediately for any updates. Also, I take fees of gold and rum, only."

"Gold and rum?" snorts Sam, after the call is disconnected. Why not a new house? Witches were materialistic in the oddest ways.

"He might have more important things to concern himself about, then an actual payment, Sam. Most witches and mages nowadays are trying to find out if dragons exist," sighs Bobby, setting the spellbook down at the stone table. "It's all nonsense, frankly."

"You don't believe in dragons?"

"Not exactly. Rather, what would be the point. I think it's a good thing we know so little about them, otherwise we might be under the utter dictatorship of them, because Hell, it's like comparing insects to mountain lions."

Sam agrees silently. Maybe it was better.

\--

"Wait, wait," Dean snaps, "you're saying that Sam has to track through the entire canyon way for some witch you don't even know is reliable?"

For someone ill in bed, he certainly has not lost the flame on his tongue nor in his eyes.

But Sam does not stand down. "Dean, it's the only way. We can't go around it, if that's what you're saying-"

"Are you dense, Sam? I'm saying you could die. Damn it, you probably will! Who knows what's in that land- and you," Dean jerks a finger towards Bobby, who only lifts an unimpressed eyebrow, "you're not an option either. I'm more liable in leaving myself than either of you two."

"Have you got that much of an ego or are you mad?" retorts Bobby just as easily, "it's not as though Sam will be going completely alone. Right, Sam?"

Sam doesn't reply immediately, and instead glares at Dean for his absolutely inept, petulant argument, but nods nonetheless.

"I'll leave you two alone to discuss this," Bobby finally concludes after a moment of angry tension, and stands upright to exit. "I hope to hear a clear compromise to this so you can get better sooner, Dean," and shuts the door without so much of a click.

After he leaves, Sam whirls around, "Okay, I know you're not a fan of this-"

"Damn straight."

"-but hear me out. I'll bring, I don't know, seven guards equipped with horses and all, to garuantee that I won't die," continues Sam.

"Ten."

"What?"

"Ten soldiers, or you're not going."

"Oh my- fine, fine!" Sam stops, "But that means you're giving your word for my departure?"

"Don't say it like that either, 'cause now it sounds as though you're leading yourself to some imminent death. But...."

"But....?"

"Adam. The son of Dad's mistress. Do you think that maybe-"

"No, why would you think that I'd ever allow him to go? In fact, why would you ever allow him to go?"

"I'm not, okay! I was just brainstorming, Lord."

"Well, don't. I'm going and that's final."

"When?"

"When Carver calls us back, I suppose."

"Carver?" Dean wrinkles his nose, "Anyone named Carver is a bad sign."

"Says whom?"

"Me. And I have great instincts, especially to women and you know it."

"Why do you always turn our conversations into a joke about your unclean life?"

"Unclean? Sammy, you aren't possibly telling me that you're the representation of a saint, are you?"

"Shut up. Just shut up." Sighing, Sam shifts his gaze away to Dean's bedstand, which was uncommonly cluttered with torn parchment smeared with ink and candle nubs. "Why do you even have all this? Do you write love notes when you can't sleep."

Dean laughs briefly. "Something like such."

"Wait, seriously?"

"No, I don't, unless you count the unholy messages I'll slip to Lisa's bedchamber every once in while." Instantly, Sam unhands the folded sheet that previously lain sullen on the table.

"Speaking of your... consorts, is there anyone that, you think, are capable of, um, lasting this trip, as well?"

Dean cocks his head, questioning, "Is this your way of asking me which one of my past partners would be strong enough and better than you to make the trip?"  
"No- yes, sure."

"Eh, I don't know. I don't know what you do, but I definitely don't ask the love of my life out to a battle arena to spar as a first date."  
"You're hopeless. How are you the future king, seriously."

"Hey, the people love me," his brother is about to continue about his glory but is interrupted by a spontaneous bout of coughing. "Ughh. Give me a moment. I really need to get out of here soon."

Sam stands up from the bedside, and rolls his shoulders as a starter stretch. "Take all the moments you'd like. I think we've reached a distinct compromise here. I don't know if you're coming to supper or not, but I'll see you later." He gives a swift farewell wave but before he can get a foot out of the room, Dean stops him with, "Hold on," and a beckoning gesture.

"Yeah?"

"You see that drawer table over there? There's a satchel in the top one." Dean waves at the corner of the room. "Give it here."

Without any struggle, Sam obliges, pulling open the drawer to reveal a dusty bag, clearly untouched for a long duration, and brings the satchel up to the bed covers, near Dean's resting body. Opening it up, Sam startles. "Holy shit."

"Yeah, yeah, spare me the gushing."

"You still have these!"

"Why wouldn't I," grumbles Dean, but Sam doesn't hear as he's still caught up that his older brother still kept his gift from years back. "They're useful," is the only excuse for affection he uses.

Sam pulls the two hand mirrors out of the bag, feeling their subtle engravings and the light weight. "Wow. Thought you lost these, or broke them."

"Nah, I treat them better than that." Dean swipes one of the hand mirrors out of Sam's grasp, and wipes the glass with his sleeve, effectively staining the white fabric with a thin layer of grime.

"Yeah, I bet."

"Okay, when you leave, take that one with you and either I'm calling you for updates or you're updating me, got that? Like, every two hours, at least."

Sam turns the mirror gingerly in his hand, tracing the swirls of the handle. "Did you change the password or is it the same still?"

"I changed it."

"Okay," nods Sam, "what is it?"

Dean swallows, turning his gaze away and visibly biting the inside of his cheek.

"What?" Sam icily says, knitting his brows.

"It might or might not be, _'I feel oddly aroused.'_ " With those words, both mirrors light up and the screen displays each other's current position. Sam is yet again left in a mixed conflict on whether to thank Dean, or snap the mirror itself.

"Change it," demands Sam. "I can't be heard saying that in public."

Dean gives a wolfish grin. "Just tell them it's Prince Dean's orders that this had to happen."

"I can't believe this," Sam utters, and hears himself repeating those words, "I can't believe this."

"You know you love me," sighs Dean comfortably, kicking the empty satchel to the ground near Sam's boots. "Now get out, I need my beauty sleep."

And he does so, without so much of another hostile jibe, because admittedly, this was incredibly helpful. His grip on the mirror handle only tightens, having forgotten the feel for so long, and Sam suppresses a smile. As he walks through the halls, hoping to get yet another clear from his mentors, he spots Bobby walking towards his way.

"Bobby! What's up?"

"Edlund called back; he found something."

"Oh, that's fast. What'd he say?"

The regent grimaces, "He says it's against his rules to have any officials or guards with the person designated to retrieve the parcel."

"And we can't stop the troops before I go to his residence alone?"

"I considered that, and also considered his point. He's a isolated witch, probably for some obscure reason. Maybe to get away from his past life, I don't know. But he doesn't want so many people that may know him at his property- or even just in his vicinity." Bobby scratches his beard thoughtfully. "I'm the royal mage, so either way I wouldn't be able to come along to this joyride."

"So it really would end up with me going alone."

"I suppose so."

"Dean is going to completely freak out."

"He'll get over it. And if he says he's not going to give his consent, tell him that you'll out him on every embarassing event he's ever had to the public."

"Thanks Bobby."

"No problem. You can break this to him later and I thought Dean lost those mirrors?"

Sam glances back down to the device in his hand, lets out a huff. "Me too. I guess he didn't, and it's not in bad condition either."

"That'll be helpful, and the servants will help you pack at dawn of this Tuesday."

"This Tuesday?" sputters Sam, eyes wide, "But that's just in two days, how is that possible that he'll complete the treatment that quickly?"

"Perhaps he's got more tricks up his sleeve than we assumed. And on horseback, the whole trip'll cost you a few days itself. A week at the least."

"A week," echoes Sam, a little less than distraught.

"I don't think you'll be in much danger, Sam. A stray bear once in a while, sure, but nothing you can't handle." Bobby reaches over to clap him on the shoulder before passing to reach his own chamber.

When he's assured he is totally alone in the halls this time, he allows himself to speak again. _"I feel oddly aroused."_ As he presumed, the mirror lights up, and all he can see is the ceiling of Dean's room, which meant Dean's counterpart mirror was lying topside on his bed currently as he slept.

Sam does not stop himself from snickering as he turns the device off (by those same, uncomfortable words in the same, uncomfortable sentence structure), and decides that maybe, they'll be alright.


	5. caves

For the next two days, Dean grumbles about this sudden trip, and every conversation is along the lines of Dean saying, "What if you die!" And in turn, Sam says, "Dean, if I don't go, _you're_ guaranteed to die!" 

It's quite frankly, miserable. And the argument against his travel had made no sense either because Sam knew entirely that Dean would have overturned every rock and galloped straight to that witch's den alone if that meant he'd save his little brother's life. 

To put it straight, Dean was a damn hypocrite.

And besides, this wasn't the first voyage Sam had ever gone on. On the other hand, it was true that it was certainly the only one so far he's ever had to go alone on. The plan had been to be escorted half way, before the canyons, and the rest of the way be trodden alone. He was aware it certainly didn't sound smart, but what choice did he have?

Before Sam left the castle, Dean had grabbed him roughly, and while pulling him close, whispered in his ear: "If you happen to die, I'm seriously going to hunt down your ghost for being so reckless, understand? I'm serious. And if you miss a single call from me, I'm absolutely going to--"

"Dean, please. Nothing's going to happen, wow. Imagine if I fretted over you like this everytime you went on your midnight escapades," snorts Sam, clipping his knife sheath in place.

"Okay, but no. It's _not_ the same because for one, I stay inside the kingdom; and two, you're going to be gone for, what, half a fortnight? Maybe even a full fortnight?" Dean suddenly sighs. "If anything happens, and I mean anything, seriously let me know."

"Alright! I'm leaving in an hour too, what do you want, to hold my hand until I go?" Sam tugs his collar loose of Dean's grip.

Dean reaches over to pat Sam's shoulder, and purses his lips. "Just be speedy, that's all I'm asking."

"Yeah, well, it's nice to know you care so much." Sam clears his throat. "Goodbye Dean."

"Goodbye."

When Sam turns around to exit the grand doors, he knows Dean's piercing gaze is following him all the way through. In a way it's comforting, and yet, burdening.

Bobby waited for him at the kingdom gates, eyebrows furrowed. Before he can say anything, Sam interrupts.

"Don't give me any second thoughts here, Bobby. It'd be offensive to back out now."

Bobby says nothing at first, then cracks a soft smile. "You'll be alright, I know. Come back a hero, and in one piece, y'hear?"

Sam cards his fingers through Impala's silky black mane before jumping on. "Yes sir," he says, feeling the familiar leather reins. 

His feet find the stirrups, and his horse (well, technically Dean's horse that he so graciously lended to Sam) clods on, picking up pace.

This is it, thinks Sam. He just hope he had packed enough to last him all the way through. He takes a good look at the kingdom around him, and back to the castle he calls home. It's time.

\--

There's not much talk amongst him and the knights, which allows Sam to immerse himself in his own thoughts (except when Dean calls on the mirror, wherein the calls last roughly a minute and mainly consist of just Dean checking in to assure the livelihood of Sam). 

So, Sam thinks, if it takes a day to get to cross the fields and meadow, and then perhaps two days to travel up the rocky terrain, and then follow the main road until a river can be seen, and _then_ follow the river south to the witch's shack, well... 

That should total a little over a week. Maybe even tens days if Sam weren't in such a hurry to return to the kingdom.

"Should we accompany you through nightfall by resting here for the night? You can continue your trip at dawn, your Highness," says a knight over the whistling breeze of the tall grass. Only the consistent gait of the horses tie Sam back to reality, and he shakes his head. 

Looking upward, Sam spots the encroaching dark clouds above him and his stomach drops. An oncoming thunderstorm during the beginnings of a voyage was, no doubt, a bad sign. The sun was setting too, the sky slowly becoming a slurry of orange and pink and a deep, deep shade of violet. 

Now, if Sam was efficient he could set up camp in some cavern atop the mountains as certainly there'll be cracks in the boulders that scatter the area, and move out once the rain dies out.

"No," says Sam calmly, "I intend to make the most out of my time, with no stops." Once we reach the mountains, you all may return."

Uneasiness fills the air, and Sam is aware that if something does go wrong, all these innocent men will be accused of misdemeanor of some sort.

"Gentlemen," Sam attempts to assure the knights kindly, "I hear this route is deserted anyway. Look around us-- not a soul for days."

"Yes, but we're not concerned of you being attacked by barbarians, because, of course, you're fully capable of defending yourself, and--"

"Spare me the airs, what do you speak of?"

The knight in question ducks his head momentarily, and then forces himself to reach Sam's gaze. His wide eyes convey his concern for the prince, which is wholly nice to see, but what he utters is not. "There is talk of dragons here."

Sam groans. "Not you too."

"To God, my Highness!" presses the knight.

"Garth, is it?" says Sam. Garth nods in confirmation, and Sam continues. "Garth, how is it that the canyons are only a day's journey away from out kingdom, and yet we've never once seen them? Shouldn't they be, I don't know, pillaging our crops all the time if they actually existed?"

To this, Garth shrugs. "Maybe these dragons have manners."

Sam's eyebrows raise. "A beast with manners?"

"Erm.... yes?" The knight replies quizzically. "Why not? A dragon isn't like a troll or-- or an orc, some solitary creature. It's got a society-- they all belong to the same community."

"I've read the lore books too, Garth, but how can we be so sure--" Sam is cut off by the now sharp clops of the horses. They're approaching the foot of the mountains, and the path has slowly become a mixture of soil and gravel. 

The sandy stone cliffs that loom over him seem so far away and he subconsciously swallows a lump in his throat.

Droplets of rain have begun to fall. Silence settles between the knights as well.

Gradually, the ebony horse begins to slow and Sam turns him around to face the knights behind him, who shuffle to remain presentable to their Highness.

"You know what?" Sam clears his throat and with the mightiest voice, he finally issues an order. "I request you all depart from here on out. I will see you all in a number of days."

"Now?" they question. "Your Highness, you've still got days before you encounter the witch, how--"

"Go, and that is an order from Prince Sam of Winchester, second to throne and son of the late King John of Winchester."

The knights are silent, stunned at Sam's usage of his title and his father's name, and they stare peculiarly at him, searching his eyes. He meets everyone's gaze individually. It's the final nonverbal word they hear from him and hopefully not forever.

Once they disappear into the horizon, Sam pulls his horse around and fishes the mirror out of his bag. He takes a grand breath before he makes the call.

"Sam, bad move," is Dean's immediate response to Sam's retelling.

"Well, Dean, there was no point in dragging them along with me, you have to understand that much," Sam replies hotly.

"First of all, you have no idea what danger you're in--"

"Yeah, and you do?"

"Enough," says Bobby, his voice distant. "If you're sure, then it's fine, Sam. Dean and I have some news, on the other hand. We might've found who Dean's attacker is."

"Really? Who?"

"We individually ran through everyone who had gone through the booths at the entrance gate of the kingdom that day, and only one magic bearer gained access."

"Yes, and?" Sam says impatiently. His grimy hands tremble slightly on the reins.

"His name, most likely an alias, is Petyr. Uh, with a 'y.'"

"Just Petyr, with no last name? A noble, perhaps. Where is he now?"

"And he's still checked in the kingdom, but not in the guest inns, we checked the rooms. In fact, we have no idea where he is right now."

"Yeah, and he had drugged me. At the tavern, no less," Sam hears Dean grumble out of frame.

"That's great," sighs Sam. He pulls at his sleeve and wipes the glass of the rain droplets. "It's getting dark now Bobby, I'm going to set up camp now. Let me know any further details immediately, alright?"

"Yes of course, your Highness," snorts Bobby albeit warmly. 

\--

Like he had thought, finding empty caves were easy. Finding decently sized caves that weren't laced with too many cobb webs that could contain an entire horse, _that_ was difficult. 

Sam is fairly certain that deep in one of the caverns had been a skull, gaping and yellowed.

When he does find a suitable cave, the sky is already covered with bloated thunderclouds, ash gray and angry. He washes his hands in a puddle of rainwater collected in a dip in the stone ground before heading inside.

The horse whinnies as Sam eases her saddle and halter off, circling around for a while but Sam doesn't pay much attention as he mutters the magical phrase.

"So how's your lodgings, Sammy?" Dean says immediately, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

"Could be better," says Sam, wiping the grime off his shoulders.

He laughs familiarly, and even Sam cracks a smile. 

"How is she?"

"Probably had better nights too."

"I know, I'm so sorry, darling," murmurs Dean. "If I had known, I wouldn't of had lended you. Baby, when you return to your father's arms, I'll clean you up real good."

Sam leaves Dean to croon to his horse while he dusts off his belongings. If he's precise with the consumables, he'll have just enough for the return trip; and if he's fortunate enough, perhaps the witch will lend him some supplies too. 

There's only two sets of attire to change into but there's a river that Sam, in theory, could wash his clothes in if necessary, but it wasn't because he also packed more than enough undergarments.

Outside, the rain seems to only get heavier, great big droplets splattering the opening of the cave, and Sam attempts to begin a fire but the branches he collected were still much too wet. He sighs and pulls the blanket around himself tighter.

If he's known the rest of the trip is to be this miserable, Sam might have reconsidered. Might.

Glancing deeper into the cave, his eyes squint into the darkness. He can only faintly see the end of it, which is comforting, but something seems to glimmer faintly in the dust.

"-- I'll let you have as much sugar as you'd like, does that sound good?" Dean is still rattling on. Sam can't believe how well he had tuned him out. "You deserve it, sweetheart, and--"

"Dean, be quiet," groans Sam, pulling himself up. "We get it, and I'm hanging up now."

"Listen, _baby brother_ , I'm the one dying so you better give me the respect I require," snaps Dean in response.

Sam only rolls his eyes. "Yeah, hold on. I think I see something."

"Something? Sam? Sam!"

An object is sparkling, half embedded in soil, Sam's sure of it. He wedges his boot heel into the ground and scrapes it out. Picking it up cautiously, Sam wipes the flakes of dirt off of it and turns it around and around in his hands. 

It's cold to his fingers, and shaped like an odd shallow plate that's half the size of his hand and practically glowing on one side. Sam hesitates, then taps it on his knee. It's solid and made of some iridescent black fiber he had never come across before.

"Saaaaaaaaaam. I'm not hanging up until you give me a response here."

"Dean, I think- hey, I think this is...." With wide eyes, Sam picks up the mirror and shows Dean his findings.

"Dude," says Dean finally.

"I know," says Sam in awe. "I'm going to wash it off and take it home."

"Wait, wait. I'm calling Bobby over."

"What? No, it's past midnight, Dean. Let him get his rest, he deserves that much."

"I suppose. You too. You don't look so hot."

"Thanks. I'll talk to you in the morning."

Before he goes to sleep, Sam gives the black scale a wipe and slides it into his bag.

But his sleep is unrestful, because for some reason, Sam knows he's not alone in these mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me 2015-2017: aight im done writing fics 5ever  
> me today: omg lol i think ik how to end this fic

**Author's Note:**

> any mistakes, feel free to point them out!


End file.
